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Tim Finnegan lived in Watling StreetA gentle Irishman, mighty oddHe'd a beautiful brogue both rich and sweetAnd to rise in the world he carried a hodBut Tim he'd sort of a tipplin way:With love for the liquor he was bornAnd to help him on with his work each dayHe'd a drop of the craythur every morn'

One morning Tim got rather fullHis head felt heavyWhich made him shakeHe fell from a ladder and he broke his skullAnd they carried him homeHis corpse to wakeThey rolled him up in a nice clean sheetAnd laid him out upon the bedWith a bucket of whiskey at his feetAnd a bottle of porter at his head

His friends assembled at the wakeAnd Mrs. Finnegan called for lunchFirst she brought in tea and cakeThen pipes, tobacco and whiskey punchBiddy O'Brien began to cry"Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?Ah Tim mavourneen why did ye die"?"Arrah hold your gob!"Said Patty Magee

Then Maggie O'connor took up the job"Arrah!" Biddy says she "ye're wrong I'm sure"Biddy gave her a belt in the gobAnd she left her sprawling on the floorThen civil war did soon engageTwas woman to woman and man to manShillelah-law was all the rageAn a row and a ruction soon began

Then Mickey Maloney raised his headWhen a bottle of whiskey flew at himIt missed him falling on the bedThe liquor scattered over TimBe gob he revivesSee how he risesFinnegan rising from the bedSays, "Whirl your whiskey 'round like blazes Thanum o'n DhoulDo ye think I'm dead!"